Chapter 1
In the fifth year of my separation from William, I died suddenly in a foreign land, leaving behind only my frail four-year-old daughter, Mia.
That night, my father, Henry, made a call to William.
A cold, impatient voice answered. "The child isn't mine. Charlotte and I have been separated for five years. We're basically divorced. Even if she's dead, don't come to me!"
Henry tried to explain. "You're still her husband. We need your signature on the death certificate... or Mia can't be placed for adoption."
Henry, now elderly, couldn't shoulder the responsibility of raising Mia alone.
But he knew all too well that William would never accept this child.
William laughed in anger. "To avoid divorce, she's even daring enough to fake her death now? Well, I hope she gets what she wants!"
The call ended abruptly.
With no options left, Henry and Mia traveled miles to William's office, along with the death certificate and photos of my remains.
***
On the night I died, William called me one last time.
For the past five years, our marriage had been broken, and we had lived apart.
Because I refused to divorce him, William had argued with me countless times over the phone.
This time, his voice was as furious as ever.
"Charlotte, do you really think hiding in another city will drag this out forever?
"We've been separated for five years. That's more than enough to grant a divorce!"
We had fought for so many years.
This time, I stayed silent.
Through the restaurant's floor-to-ceiling window, I watched the woman sitting at the table inside.
She was my client.
I had just helped her win a brutal domestic violence case, sending her husband to prison.
Grateful but uneasy, she had invited me here for dinner.
She was only in her early thirties, yet her body was covered in scars, her face gaunt, her eyes sunken.
Tearfully, she told me she was finally free.
It suddenly struck me. I was almost thirty.
William and I had been married for five years, and separated for just as long.
On the phone, his voice grew even angrier.
"I don't want to waste time in court for someone like you.
"Just sign the divorce papers, and we can both move on."
I stood alone on the sidewalk, the heat of a summer evening pressing in around me.
After a long silence, I finally replied, "Fine. I agree."
Perhaps caught off guard, he fell quiet.
After a long pause, I finally heard his voice again.
When he spoke again, his tone was oddly stiff, maybe from surprise.
"You'd better mean it."
I couldn't describe how I felt.
After dinner, I picked up our daughter, Mia, from daycare and printed out divorce papers on the way.
Later that night, I waited at the bus stop for a bus to the hospital to visit my father.
A knife was suddenly pressed against my throat.
A chillingly familiar voice hissed in my ear.
"You're so eager to save others, Ms. Garcia, but can you save yourself this time?"
It was the brother of the man imprisoned for domestic violence.
I thought about fighting back or screaming for help, but my daughter was standing right beside me.
Mia, terrified, opened her mouth to scream.
The man growled menacingly, "Make a sound and you die right here!"
I didn't fight back.
The man forced me toward the deserted alley.
I mouthed to Mia, 'Don't be scared. Call the police.'
Mia was only four years old, yet she was the most sensible child.
We had walked this path together countless times.
The police station was less than five hundred yards away.
I told Mia to call the police.
She really believed they could save me.
But deep down, I knew all too well that I likely wouldn't make it out alive.
I'd been a lawyer for nearly a decade.
Inside and outside the courtroom, I'd faced countless monsters.
I'd learned to read people, to gauge their intentions.
This man really wanted to kill me.
He had over five years of documented mental illness. I'd come across his records when investigating that domestic violence case.
An insanity plea could spare him from punishment.
The last thing I saw was Mia's tiny figure, sprinting desperately toward the end of the street.
Stumbling, falling, scrambling back up.
She was a premature baby. Even a short walk used to leave her breathless.
Yet now, in the howling night wind, she ran like an arrow released from a bow.
She truly thought that if she just ran fast enough, she could save her mom.